


Rockin' the 'Stache

by MissMoe



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Blow job (as a tease), Body Hair, Hair-pulling, Is that even a kink?, M/M, Mat is perving over Cal's hair, New York Islanders, No Plot/Plotless, Pining Mat, Rimming (imagined), Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-04-03 19:33:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14003142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMoe/pseuds/MissMoe
Summary: Cal Clutterbuck was rocking that ‘70s porn ‘stache like the pro that he was, and that was just the icing on the cake. Every time he stripped off his jersey in the locker room and strutted to the showers in all his bare naked glory, it put Mathew Barzal, rookie phenom, on his knees practically in awe.





	Rockin' the 'Stache

 

Cal Clutterbuck was rocking that ‘70s porn ‘stache like the pro that he was, and that was just the icing on the cake. Every time he stripped off his jersey in the locker room and strutted to the showers in all his bare naked glory, it put Mathew Barzal, rookie phenom, on his knees practically in awe. In a day and age when grown men shaved their chests and waxed their pubes to the smoothness of prepubescent boys, Cal had the enormous balls to flaunt a bush as thick and dark as the Bavarian Black Forest to match his gloriously unkempt facial hair. Said bush continued up the crack of his ass and spread like wildfire on each firm globe of his gluteus maximus and Mat could only shudder with wanton lust after furtively eyeing Cal’s buttocks, and imagine what it would be like to bury his innocent, choirboy face in such hirsute splendor. At twenty, Mat still couldn’t grow a ‘stache, much less a beard, to save his life—his grandmother had more facial hair than he did—and all the guys teased him about his cheeks being as smooth as a baby’s bottom, even Anthony Beauvillier, who was also twenty but did a much better job faking a daily shave. Mat was pretty sure that his counterpart across town wearing number thirteen for the New Jersey Devils, Nico Hischier, endured even worse teasing; the boy looked like he was still in diapers, for Christ’s sake. Was it humiliating? Yeah, sort of, especially in a sport where masculinity was had in spades and when it came to Cal, shit, the dude was a man’s man, even when compared to Alex Ovechkin, that magnificent Russian specimen who made ‘lumbering on ice’ an art form and the phrase ‘it ain’t pretty, but it gets him from here to there’ a sweet compliment indeed on his skating style.

Mat, on the other hand, was a _beauty_ on ice—fast and graceful and agile as all fuck—and not afraid to add a flourish or two just to annoy the shit out of both his opponents and his own coach.

“This ain’t the freaking Ice Capades!” Coach Weight would chide during an intermission if Mat’s showboating veered into the danger zone one too many times.

“Gotcha, Coach.” Mat would laugh off the deserved criticism and the thinly veiled barb about his ‘figure skating’ lessons. If those lessons made him a ballerina on skates, so be it, he was willing to accept the snarky comments because the results were undeniable: he was skating circles and figure eights around everyone. _Take that, haters!_ Tonight though, after yet another loss and too many wasted power plays, Mat just wanted to have something hot and juicy to put into his spank bank for later, when he was tucked into his bed at Haus Seidenberg*, hand on cock, ready to rock ‘n roll on an intimate basis with himself. That hot and juicy something happened to be Cal, who was vigorously scrubbing himself in the shower, all that body hair forming soapy swirls across his chest and abs, a pattern as mesmerizing as the sky in Van Gogh’s _Starry Night_. Mat remained seated on the bench in front of his locker, still in his sweaty jersey, getting sweatier by the second, drooling behind a towel held to his face as he gaped through the doorway at his older teammate. Sweat rolled into his eyes and the sting of it finally roused him from his unabashed perving. Shit. He’d popped a boner. Now he’d have to wait for it to subside before he could hit the showers, or maybe he could just wrap a towel around his hips super tight and set the water to ice cold to tame it, or maybe he could just get the deed over with in one of the toilet stalls and go for round two at home. So many choices…what to do?

“What’s the matter, rookie?” Cal was standing right in front of him wearing flip flops and nothing else as he toweled off with no thought to his blinding nudity. “Don’t let it get to you. Gotta put the game behind you and move on. The next one is what counts.”

The sight of Cal’s cock, impressive even when flaccid, made Mat press his palms against his eyes and groan. Cal assumed that Mat was miserable about the loss to the Capitals and he couldn’t say it didn’t hurt. Shit. They’d gotten their asses reamed two nights in a row. Why wouldn’t it hurt? But Cal was a veteran at thirty and had ten full seasons under his belt already. It took more than a losing streak to bring him down. “C’mon, kid. Tomorrow’s another day.”

Mat felt a large and heavy hand on his shoulder followed by a firm squeeze and a shake. Cal’s dick was right next to his face now, his balls swinging freely like a pair of upside down Chia pets as Cal gave Mat a fraternal pat on the back. Oh god. If he turned to the right just a little and opened his mouth…Mat gulped instead, quickly wiped at the saliva trailing down his chin, and cleared his throat loudly. It made no difference, because he still found himself croaking, “Yeah, well, I hate…losing.” God help him, being eye-to-eye with Cal’s very own one-eyed monster was shorting out Mat’s brain. _Get a grip!_ Mat told himself. _It’s not like you haven’t seen cock a million times already!_ But it wasn’t just the whole dick thing. This was _Cal’s_ dick, and Cal’s dick was always associated with Cal’s ‘stache in Mat’s mind, with Cal’s luxuriant body hair, and what Mat wouldn't give to be able to dive into all that finery face-first. He dropped his head between his shoulders, closed his eyes and pictured it: running his fingers through it as he stroked up and down Cal’s chest and abs, rubbing his nose and lips against Cal’s dense pubes, then teasing just the crown of Cal’s cock with a quick flick of his tongue before he sucked a hairy ball into his mouth, first one, then the other. Cal would groan above him and pull Mat’s hair a little too hard, make him know that Mat was driving him nuts. Yesss. And then the good part, the part that always made Mat whimper with need in his wildest fantasies: Cal would turn around and present his ass and Mat would fall on his knees and _worship_ him with his tongue. He’d place one palm on each cheek and part them reverently, eyelids fluttering at the sight of the Holiest of Holies, the Inner Sanctum. He’d dart his tongue again, just a feathery touch like an arrow finding the bulls-eye and Cal would twitch for him, then swear a blue streak as Mat licked a hot wet stripe across Cal’s taint before going in full-bore, lips, tongue, teeth all working in unison as he systematically took Cal apart, piece by filthy piece. So. Fucking. Good.

Soft moans filled Mat’s ears alternating with a higher pitched whine and breathy pants. Yeah, he was close, Cal was close and so was he. Mat’s dick was so hard in his uniform, straining against the cup, but before he could reach down and make a few necessary adjustments, he suddenly heard his captain’s voice alarmingly close to his shoulder. Mat's eyes flew open and, sure enough, John Tavares was crouching over him with a concerned look on his face. Cal was standing next to John, fully dressed, looking equally worried. 

“Th’ fuck? You okay, Matty?” asked Tavares. “Why are you hyperventilating?”

“Huh?” Mat wiped at his chin again and the back of his hand came away wet with more spit. 

“You looked like you were having some kind of seizure, kid,” explained Cal. “I thought JT should know.”

 _Jesus Christ, now would be a good time to die_ , thought Mat. Somehow he managed to stammer out, “No, no…uh…I’m fine, I’m good…just got a little lightheaded…heh…blood sugar must be low.” _More like all my blood went south_. His face felt like it was on fire; he was such a horrible liar but, fortunately, both John and Cal seemed to buy it.

Tavares examined Mat closely, staring into his pupils like he was the team trainer with a degree in sports medicine or, more appropriately, like a priest weighing the magnitude of one’s sinful deed. “Yeah,” he said with a serious nod of his head. He turned to Cal and elbowed him in the ribs, “The kid’s definitely hungry. No worries. A few donut holes should do the trick.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> * For those of you who might not know, Barzal is living in the home of veteran Dennis Seidenberg during his rookie season, a very good thing, me thinks.
> 
> Well, my New York Islanders got royally shafted two nights in a row by the Washington Capitals and have lost ten of their last eleven games. My sweet darling boy Barzal did notch a goal last night, and there was plenty of chirping on the ice, so not all was lost. Since I’m a Mets fan, too, I know all about looking on the bright side of things…normal people call it “denial” I believe…heh, who needs normal?


End file.
